“What?”
“My lord,” mumbled Hradian, “all I saw in addition to the flotsam were a few of King Avélar’s ships escorting two captured dhows and heading toward Port Mizon; all ships were scarred by fire, and their crews were sparse. I deem there was a great battle, and the corsairs and Changelings are no more.”
Rage suffused Orbane’s face, and he looked about for someone to punish, and though throngs of Goblins and Bogles and Trolls were camped thither and yon in the great swamp, Hradian was the only being at hand, and so he stepped forward to where she lay trembling. . . .
In the plains of blue flowers and yellow butterflies, Michelle waited long moments ere speaking, but finally she said, “The needle, it has stopped moving.”
Sieur Émile looked up from his evening ration of jerky and tack. “Stopped, you say? Well and good. What be our new course, Princess?”
“The very same as the old course,” said Michelle, frowning. “ ’Tis the very same.”
49
Gathering Storm
As warders watched the silver needle throughout the night, it remained fixed dawnwise. And when the encampment roused in the morn, dawnwise the needle continued to hew. And so, off they set, four thousand strong, riding and tramping toward the just-risen sun. And as they marched, one of the distant outriders assigned to the right flank came galloping toward the vanguard and sounded a horn. Roél spurred his mount forth to meet him, and, following Wolves, Michelle and Galion on point slowed their pace and watched.
And the outrider and Roél met a short distance away from the main body.
“My lord, good news,” said Bayard, pointing back the way he had come, “a force of fifty knights leads an army of two thousand. They follow Sprites, and their leader is a chevalier named Léon, and he says they are from the realm of Château Bleu.”
“Ah, Léon. I know him, Bayard.” Roél glanced back along the train. “He is Prince Luc’s steward when Luc is in the Autumnwood. —Come, let us take this good news to Sieur Émile, and then to Prince Luc.”
“There is more good news, my lord,” said the outrider.
“More?”
“Oui. Léon’s Sprites tell me that when we cross the next border, we will be in the realm where lies the swamp we seek.” “Acolyte!” called Orbane. “Up from your bed. I need you to lend me your power.”
“My power, my lord?” said Hradian, struggling up from her cot, wincing because of her bruises. “But it is so minuscule compared to yours.”
A twist of rage flashed across Orbane’s face at being even obliquely questioned. Still, he reveled in the fact that she had rightly seen in comparison to him she was all but insignificant. “Nevertheless, Acolyte, I would have it, for this day I will cover the sky with darkness, and, when that is in place, then on the morrow I will raise the putrescence, and then we march.”
Regar looked at Auberon, the Fairy Lord yet somber. “My lord, though the queen is indisposed, and your son is free, although we cannot use Fairy magic or Elven magic ’gainst him, still we must needs raise your army, else the whole of Faery and the mortal world will likely be lost to him.”
Auberon sighed and nodded, and stepped to a bell cord and tugged it. Moments later a page appeared.
“Fanir, bring me my horn, for I would summon the army.”
As the page darted away, Regar looked at his grandfather in puzzlement. “My lord, a horn?”
“Oui.”
“But will it be heard?”
Auberon smiled. “Indeed, though only by the Fey.”
“But we are underground . . . under the hills.”
“Even so, mon petit-fils, it will be heard.”
Regar shook his head and sighed. “There is much for me to learn about my kind, quart-sang—quarter-blood—though I am.”
In that moment the page returned, and in his grasp was a silver trump. He gave it over to Auberon.
“How long will it take for the army to muster?” asked Regar.
“They will be here within the day,” said Auberon. Then the Fairy King raised the clarion to his lips and sounded a call, and the cry rang throughout the hollow hills and beyond.
Even as Roél and the outrider galloped back toward the long column, Peti and Trit gasped.
“What is it?” asked Michelle.
“The Fey Lord has summoned his army,” said Trit.
“Fey L—the Fairy King?”
“Oui,” replied Peti.
“And you know this how?”
“He has sounded his horn.”
“But I heard nought,” said Galion.
“ ’Tis not meant for your ears,” said Trit.
Galion grunted but made no other comment, yet Michelle said, “If the Fey Lord is mustering his legions, it means Prince Regar has succeeded in his mission.” She glanced hindward at the vanguard, where Roél and the outrider had gotten to. “You must fly back and tell Sieur Émile. It might change his battle plans to know the Fairy Army will come.”
Gesturing at the sky and shouting out arcane words, Orbane stood on the flet, Hradian beside him, and directly high above a cloud began to form—a dark cloud, an ominous cloud, a great tower of blackness slowly building up and up. And soon lightning began to flash within its bowels and thunder boomed, yet no rain came flashing down. And still Orbane called to the sky, and the monstrous dark began to spread, even as it continued to grow upward.
And Hradian sagged under the drain on her vigor. “Crapaud,” she managed to croak, and the bloated creature waddled to her side. “Crapaud,” she whispered as she touched him on his forehead, “lend me your power.”
And the great toad belched but once and then fell somnolent. Angling in from sunwise and following Sprites, the Château Bleu contingent slowly merged with that from the Forests of the Seasons and others. And Léon, sighting the crimson and gold flag of the Autumnwood, gave over command to the château armsmaster and then spurred his horse toward the banner.
“My Lord,” said Léon as he fell in alongside Prince Luc, “I turn over to you le Bataillon du Château Bleu.”
“Non, Léon,” replied Luc, “ ’tis yours to retain, for I am in command of the Autumnwood battalion. It is Sieur Émile in charge of this legion, and, just as are all the others, your force will be at his disposal. He is seasoned in war, and he and his sons—Roél, Blaise, and Laurent—have been in many campaigns. And so, the Battalion of the Blue Château is yours to command under his leadership. Now come, let us ride forward to meet him.”
Luc heeled his horse into a canter, and with Léon coursing alongside, ahead to the van they went, where they dropped into a walk aflank of Sieur Émile.
After the introductions had been made, Émile broke into a broad smile. “You bring fifty chevaliers? Mithras, but that is splendid news. I was beginning to wonder if we could prevail with the few we have.”
“Forget not, Sire,” said Roél, “there might be more on the way. And certainly the Fairy King will bring his fey knights to our side.”
And on they rode, and they were joined by Laurent and Blaise, as well as Petain and Georges, two of the commanders they had acquired on the march. And they spoke of strategy and tactics, and of the best way to use the windfall of a half-hundred chevaliers, Léon giving and taking in the discussion among his battle peers.
They crossed the twilight marge in midafternoon, to come under dark and ominous skies. And the silver needle and the Sprites who had been in this region before agreed that the great swamp lay a point to sun of duskwise, hence in that direction did they fare.
The land itself was of rolling hills, dotted here and there with small groves and thickets, while rough grass and wild weed covered the rest. In the distance starwise, low mountains loomed and streams flowed down from the heights.
Accompanied by the Wolves, Michelle yet rode on point, now escorted not only by Galion but also by two of the knights of Château Bleu. Sprites ranged out before them, now and then flitting back to say what lay ahead. And as they went onward, t
he cast above, dark as it was, grew even blacker, and lightning raged and thunder roared, and light stuttered within the ebon gloom above, and dimness lay over all.
In late afternoon they approached a long rise in the land that went up and up to a broad ridge, running down from the distant mountains to starwise to stretch horizontal for a way, only to drop off sharply into hills leftward. And waiting on the near side of the crest of the ridge, as foretold by the Sprites, were another two thousand men. A man named Bailen led them, and he rode forth to meet with Sieur Émile.
“Just beyond that rise,” said Bailen, lifting his voice to be heard above the roar of thunder, “the land gently falls for a league or so to come to a broad plain, and another league on lies the swamp. Except for my hidden warders, I have kept my men on this side of the slope so as not to alert Orbane as to our numbers.—Would you care to see, my lord?”
“Indeed,” replied Émile. “For much needs to be planned.”
And so he and Bailen rode upslope and dismounted just this side of the crest. They walked to the top, and, under black, roiling skies, Émile took in the view. The ridge slowly fell away and into a shallow, ever-widening valley. Off to the right the land rose steeply; to the left it turned into rolling hills, where the ridge itself dropped sharply to join them. But in between and at the bottom of the league-long slope lay the broad plain. And some two leagues away from where Émile took in the view stood the beginnings of the mire.
The swamp was vast and fed by streams and rivers flowing down from the mountains to starwise and the hills sunwise; the morass stretched out for as far as the eye could see.
“How is the land on the plain? Soft, treacherous, or does it provide good footing?”
“My lord, I do not know, for I got here but this morn, and I would not give our presence away to the foe.”
“What say the Sprites?”
“My lord, they are not of a size to gauge the pack of the soil, for to them even soft loam seems good footing.”
“I and my Wolves can go in the night,” said Michelle softly.
Émile turned to see the princess had come up to take a look as well.
“My lady,” said Émile, “I would not have you—”
“We have been through this argument before, Sieur, and again I say, there is none better to take on this task.”
“Oui, but—”
“Sieur, I insist.”
Émile took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Then I will send Galion to—”
“Sieur, non! Where one person and seven Wolves can go in stealth, two-and-seven more than doubles the risk. My pack will not be seen, and I have been training with them, whereas Galion has not.”
“But, Princess—”
“Sieur Émile!”
Again Émile took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. Finally he said, “No unnecessary risks.”
“No unnecessary risks,” agreed Michelle.
Splatting through the swamp, the Serpentine scout rode at a gallop, his scaled steed running flat out. The vertical pupils of the rider’s viperous eyes were open to the full, and his way in the dismal mire was lighted by the nearly continuous barrage of lightning above.
At last he came to where he could see the witch’s cote standing on stilts and surrounded by a quag of turgid water, and he called out for her to attend.
Hradian barely heard the cry, for, just moments before, Orbane had completed his spell casting. The dark pall above was now more than sufficient to carry out his plan. And so he let her enthrallment lapse, and she in turn released Crapaud. She was drained of nearly all energy, and she lay in a collapsed heap, sweat streaming from her body.
“See what he wants, Acolyte,” demanded Orbane.
Hradian crawled to the edge of the flet, and she croaked out, “Speak,” her voice but barely above a whisper.
“My lord and master Orbane, there is an army of some eight or ten thousand humans just beyond the dawnwise brim of the swamp.”
“My lord,” whispered Hradian, “he says—”
“I heard what he said, Fool!” raged Orbane. Then he shouted out, “Humans? Only humans? No others?”
“Some Sprites, my lord.”
“Ah, good,” murmured Orbane. “Then my sire is not with them. I heard his horn this morning, but it will take a while for the Fey to assemble, and by the time that is done, I will have succeeded. Yet these pests of humans now think to beleaguer me. Bah! Without my father they will easily fall. And I must keep them from delaying the lifting up of the putrescence.” Then he shouted to the Serpentine scout, “Bring Bolok to me! Now!”
Given the dark of the overcast, night came on uncertain feet. Yet at the point when the blackness was complete but for the lightning above, Michelle and Slate and Dark and Render, Shank, Trot, Loll, and Blue-eye slipped up the rise and over and down and headed toward the plain below. The Sprite Trit rode in the prow of her tricorn.
Down they went and down, the Wolves raising their muzzles and taking in the air, taking in scent, and by the stutter of lightning they could see the way ahead.
They came to the edge of the flat, and there Michelle paused, and under the violent coruscations of the churning skies they could see the dark beginnings of the vast swamp to the fore.
“Oh, my,” said Trit in dismay, in between thunderous booms. “What a dreadful place that is.”
“Dreadful? Why so?”
“Princess, at the bottom of every swamp lies great sickness, a sickness whose very vapors can cause the ague and boils and other such horrible manifestations of its terrible strength, and even a short exposure to this ghastly effluence is deadly to Sprites and lethal to humans if either remain too long in its grasp.”
“What of its effects upon Goblins and Bogles and Trolls and other such beings?”
“Oh, my lady, it harms them not, for Goblins and Trolls are akin to Bogles, who themselves live in swamps.”
“And the Serpentines?”
“The Serpentines and their mounts are more snake than people and steeds, and such corruption harms them not.”
“Well then, Trit, if we can choose our battleground, let it be on this plain and not in the midst of the mire.”
“But only if the soil is firm,” said Trit, “or so Sieur Émile said.”
“Let us test it,” said Michelle, and she gave a soft growl, and Slate led the Wolves onto the plain, Michelle following after and probing with a slender, sharp staff.
Among the roars of thunder, “Bolok, you are the cham of my armies,” said Orbane, looking down at the great Troll standing waist-deep in the water at the edge of the flet. “I would have you lead them against these humans. By no means let the humans enter the swamp until my spell casting is done. Then it won’t matter.”
“Humans?”
“Oui. There is an army of them on the dawnwise marge of the swamp. Ten thousand or so.”
Bolok laughed. “Ten thousand? Why, my Trolls alone could slaughter them all.”
“Non, Bolok, for I need make certain that you protect me on my way to the goal. Hence you will use all under my command to do this ragtag army in.”
“All, my lord? All forty thousand?”
“Oui, all forty thousand. And heed me, more are on the way; if they arrive in time, then throw them into the battle as well, for you must keep the ragtags from disturbing me as I maintain the darkness above and cast the second great spell.”
“As you will, my lord,” said Bolok.
“Then go, and go now, and destroy them all or, at a minimum, keep them at bay.”
Bolok laughed and turned and waded through the scum-laden waters to round up the throngs and give them their orders.
In the hollow hills, Regar and Auberon waited as the Fey army came together, Fairies riding from all directions upon their splendid mounts. They wore silver-chased bronze armor polished to a high sheen, and their weapons were bows and arrows as well as long spears, pointed at both ends, one tip for lancing, the other for stabbing down upon a fo
e. Girted at their waists were finely honed sabers, and strapped to their thighs were keen long-knives.
“My lord,” said Regar, “are we not ready to ride?”
“Nearly,” said Auberon.
Regar stopped his pacing. “Do you know where we should go?”
“When we looked through the queen’s silver mirror, I recognized a witch named Hradian, and behind her and my son I could see what appeared to be a swamp, and that’s where the witch has an abode. Too, I believe I know the goal of my son, and there is a pass he must fare through to get from the swamp to his target. It is in that pass where we’ll make our stand.”
“Well and good,” said Regar. “I will be glad when this day is come to an end and the army is ready to hie, for I am in haste to ride.”
“As am I,” said the Fairy King, “and this day is nearly done.”
“Hai!” exclaimed Regar, eager to be off, for somewhere Blaise and the others were waiting, yet what Regar had temporarily forgotten was that time steps at a different pace in the Halls of the Fairy King.
Michelle looked across the assembly of leaders, and raised her voice to be heard. And in a lull in the thunderous skies she said, “Until you are nigh upon the swamp itself, the plain is firm, Sieur Émile.”
“Good. Did you”—Émile waited as the heavens roared—“or the Wolves see or sense any foe?”
“Non. All was quiet but for the storm above, though there yet falls no rain.”
“I have not seen skies like this ere now,” said Roél.
The others chimed their agreement.
All commanders and armsmasters and warband leaders were gathered to plan the morrow, assuming they could draw Orbane’s forces out onto the plain.
After giving her report, Michelle withdrew, for with no scouting to be done, or at least no scouting that she and the Wolves might accomplish, she felt her role would be that of one of the archers. Laurent would tell her where to be in the fight to come.
And even as the planners sat in council, Chelle and the Wolves went back to the crest of the slope, and they watched as lightning flared to illuminate the land below. Finally, Michelle turned to go back into the encampment, yet a flow of movement caught the corner of her eye. At the next lightning flare she saw a great blot of darkness moving down the starwise slopes toward the swamp. Again lightning stuttered across the sky, and this time she could see that it was a great throng of Goblins, perhaps as many as ten or twelve thousand. And then the leading edge of the swarm reached the swamp and slowly the mire engulfed them.
Once Upon a Dreadful Time Page 28
